Everybody Is A Book Of

I've Learned Two Things In My Life. One That Love Is The Beginning And End Of All Meaning. And Two That It Is The Same Thing Whatever Shape Our Souls Have Taken On This Journey. Love Is Love. Is Love.

Did I Say That She Was Beautiful? I Was Wrong. Beauty Is Too Tame A Notion; It Evokes Only Faces In Magazines. A Lovely Eloquence, A Calming Symmetry; None Of That Describes This Woman’s Face. So Perhaps I Should Assume I Cannot Do It Justice With Words. Suffice It To Say That It Would Break Your Heart To See Her; And It Would Mend What Was Broken In The Same Moment; And You Would Be Twice What You’d Been Before.

How Many Human Eyes...had Snatched Glimpses Of Their Secret Anatomies, Down The Passage Of Years?

Of Course It’s The Apparently Tranquil Periods That Deceive Us. Though Our Instruments Or Our Senses Or Our Wits May Not Be Able To See The Processes That Are Leading Toward These Clusters Of Events, They’re Happening. The Star, The Wheel, The Butterfly—all Are In A Subtle State Of Unrest, Waiting For The Moment When Some Invisible Mechanism Signals That The Time Has Come. Then The Star Explodes; The Wheel Makes Poor Men Rich; The Butterfly Mates And Dies.

Welcome To The Worst Nightmare Of All, Reality!